


(Can't) Forget Past Indiscretions

by turnonmyheels



Series: Empty Spaces [9]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnonmyheels/pseuds/turnonmyheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows season five Episode To Thine Own Self Be True.  Chibs confronts Juice.</p>
<p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/336595">Staring Back from the Mirror a Face That You Don't Recognize </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	(Can't) Forget Past Indiscretions

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you LDThomps for the beta

It’s all out now. All he has to do is find the shit Clay’s trying to hide, and it will all be done. 

Except finding the evidence and giving it to Jax is the same thing as being a rat. 

And Jax knows it. 

So does Chibs.

And Juice.

Clay.

Juice swallows down against the ever-present knot in his throat. He’s fucked everything up. Everything. He wants a drink, would kill for a joint, anything-- something stronger.

There is no oblivion that can save him now. If only … if only he hadn’t fallen right back into taking care of Clay when got out of the hospital, just like he’d taken care of him in prison. Except not really, because Clay couldn’t even go to the bathroom without help in the beginning; there was no chance of him getting it up. But then he’d gotten better but still needed help and Chibs hadn’t been around and …

The knot in his throat gets bigger. Juice winces when he tries to swallow again. He hears the smooth rumble of a Harley cruising up to the house. Juice scrubs his fingers over his head, then lights a smoke. He’s halfway to the door when he hears it unlock and open.

Chibs. 

He should have known it was Chibs, he’d been complaining about his fucked up exhaust for a month now. Heat streaks across Juice’s face as he remembers he was supposed to help Chibs with that, but then he’d been taking care of …

Clay.

“Fixed my bike.” Chibs shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Yeah.” Juice talks around the cigarette in his mouth. His eyes dart around the room settling on everything but Chibs. “Sounds great.” It’s all out now; he’s got nothing to hide so why does he feel backed into a corner? He steals a glance at Chibs pulling off his riding gloves one finger at a time. Chibs flexes his hand into a fist a couple of times, and then takes the glove off of his other hand and flexes it, too. The rings on his middle fingers glint in the low light of the room. Juice can’t tear his eyes off the rings. He loves those cold rings in the heat of Chibs’ hands wrapped around his dick or the back of his neck. Loves it that they flare cold against his skin when Chibs holds him down and fucks him. 

Chibs drops the gloves onto the coffee table then shrugs off his cut, draping it over the arm of the couch. Juice’s heart is hammering in his chest, an unneeded rush of adrenaline making him all but shake apart. He finishes his cigarette, one long drag all the way down to the filter. He crushes it out in an ashtray. There’s a squeak and a thunk – Chibs settling on the leather couch, arms spread out wide along the back of the seat, boots propped up on the coffee table. There’s dried mud caught in the tread of Chibs’ boots, it flakes off and clomps onto Juice’s table. Chibs knows how Juice feels about dirty shoes in his house.

“Bring me a whisky.” Juice turns on his heel at the order and practically runs to the kitchen, so relieved to have something to do to break the silence engulfing them. “Bring the bottle.”

Chibs flicks the ashes from his cigarette onto Juice’s floor when he takes the tumbler of whisky. The bottle of Bushmill’s clanks loudly against the glass-topped coffee table. Juice shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from handing Chibs an ashtray; it’s clear he wouldn’t use it. “Sit.”

Chibs has spread himself out across Juice’s couch so wide there’s not any room on it for Juice – unless he wants to tuck himself against Chibs’ side (he wants to, he really, really wants to) so Juice sits on the table beside Chibs feet. His elbows prop against his knees and he looks down, at the ever growing pile of ash on his floor. “Look at me.”

Since all this shit started with Roosevelt and Potter – fuck that, since _prison_ \- it’s like Juice is some kind of automaton. Somebody says jump, he doesn’t even bother to ask how high, he just starts jumping up and down until someone tells him to stop. He’s been trying to figure out if he’s always been this way or if it’s a reaction to all the fucked up shit he’s been through in the past few years. He thinks he used to have a code he lived by and the balls to back it up. How could he have lived through Prospecting otherwise? He looks up at Chibs through his eyelashes, chin still resolutely tucked toward his chest. 

“Look me in the eye.”

He lifts his head and meets Chibs’ gaze. Juice has never been able to read someone by their eyes like they talk about in movies and books. Chibs’ eyes are brown like Juice’s and he’s got no idea at all what emotion is behind them. The death grip Chibs has on the Bushmill’s and the flexing of his jaw - those are cues Juice can read. His heartbeat ratchets up while his stomach feels leaden. There will be no forgiveness from Chibs.

Juice doesn’t look away as Chibs turns up the bottle and chugs down a few swallows. “I love you boy.” Chibs wipes off his mouth with the back of his hand and screws the lid back on the bottle. “I’m the Sergeant-at-Arms.” He’s silent while he fishes out his cigarettes and lights up. 

The lighter flares, Chibs’ eyes glint in the reflected light. Whether it’s emotion or his own guilty conscience, Juice will never know, but he sees hatred in Chibs’ eyes. “So you understand that it’ll be me that puts you down when the time comes.” He drags on the cigarette, smoking half of it at once. He exhales the cloud of smoke into Juice’s face. “Fuck you for that, you piece of shit.”

Chibs stands, dropping the cigarette onto Juice’s carpet, the heel of his boot grinding out the spark. He pulls on his gloves one at a time, then his cut. He tucks the Bushmill’s under his arm and walks out the door, not even bothering to shut it behind him.


End file.
